


Control Freak

by thelongcon (rainer76)



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Control, Dirty-talk, Handcuffs, Kink, M/M, NSFW, Restraints, Threesomes, Twosomes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-04
Updated: 2014-06-04
Packaged: 2018-02-03 09:34:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1739834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainer76/pseuds/thelongcon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part of Rick can envy their ability – a part of him, darker and more primal - wants to hold Daryl static, immobile, wants to rub a dirty thumb-print over Daryl’s torso, scrub out the name inked into his flesh and replace it with his own -  Rick Grimes in cursive scribe - a place-marker over his heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Control Freak

C and D block are the hub of the community, when the Woodbury folk first arrived there was talk about integrating the two parties, switching out some of Rick’s team to live across in the opposite building, invite Sasha, or maybe Tyresse to take up residence with the Atlanta group, a show of trust.  It was Sasha who suggested it and Rick, who couldn’t make these type of calls anymore, felt every stomach muscle twist in rebellion.   It was irrational maybe, but he couldn’t stand the thought of having his people out of sight; they were already settled as they were, what if the two parties didn’t integrate?  What if mistrust and malice still lingered from the time they had infiltrated their quiet, leafy streets, tore open their walls, and let the Walkers invade?  Sasha had looked from one to another – _it could be a good way_ , she said,  _to tell people the hatchet’s been buried – yeah,_  Daryl scoffed, still bristling with the memory of the arena,  _straight into my spine._  

 _It’s early days yet_ , Hershel advised, smiling,  _I think people are more comfortable with their own for the moment.  We don’t want too many upsets at once._

And so Rick had breathed easily, felt his stomach unclench.

The conversation took place months ago and to this day, the sleeping arrangement has never been altered.   Rick’s people stay in C-block –  _it’s theirs_  - the Woodbury folk stay in D, and everything else is shared between.  They’ve cleared out more of the tombs in the intervening months, generators for showers, a barbeque area and a kitchen for general usage.  In the days after Andrea’s death, Michonne and Daryl were barely seen; they’d haul off on stretches that could encompass two days to over a week, searching in a widening arc for the Governor, picking over likely bolt-holes with a single-minded determination. 

It was the two of them who first started bringing stragglers home, stumbling across survivors in the wild while bent on killing Phillip.  (It’s not his name – the Governor didn’t lie when he said he didn’t tell it to anyone -  _my name’s Phillip,_  he told Andrea, to make her feel special, see, I’ve gifted you with it, and smiled through a mouthful of black lies.   _My name’s Brian,_  he tells Lilly to make her feel special, see, I’ve gifted it to you.  _I never tell my name to anyone_.  Neither of those monikers were true, they’re interchangeable with Thomas, Sean, and David, other names he’s used in the past - Penny was the last person who truly knew his identity - the Governor lies to women because he can, he knows how to roll them into bed.)  Michonne doesn’t care what his name is – he’s a one-eyed monster on borrowed time – and Michonne’s hatred of him ran instinctive from the moment they met.  Daryl’s hatred is a little different, mired in a brother lost, and Rick’s is different again, of the three of them, he’s the only one determined to put it aside.

Rick concentrates on his son – learning how to let things go, to not hold onto control so tight – it’s Rick who stays inside the prison while Michonne and Daryl come and go.  But of the three of them, the Woodbury folk are nervy around Rick the _most_ , and that just seems wrong on so many levels, he doesn’t get why their conversations drift into quietness when he enters a room, how they press a little further away, or instinctively look toward Hershel, Carol, or the nearest Atlanta member for reassurance; a disquiet that’s amplified when the other two are absent. 

Rick treads softly in the presence of the Woodbury folk; he sticks to C block, tends the fields, calls out a polite hello to Patrick and tries his best not to learn any of the names of the adults, (they’re not his people – whispers quietly in the back of his skull) an indelible scar that can’t be erased.

Daryl and Michonne go out on longer runs, vanishing for almost three weeks on one occasion – when they do show up, there’s a physical ease between them; a trust in the other’s presence.

Michonne’s eyes are a challenge when she stares at Rick, the sway of her hips are designed to catch his attention.  Michonne moves with a studied slowness, a false delusion to anyone who thinks they’re fast enough to catch her, they’re gonna be surprised, that stance says, oh so surprised when I strike back.   She drapes an arm around Daryl’s shoulders, talks about the time he gave her fleas, she tilts her head at Rick, the gentle line of her neck classical as a swans, and his chest blossoms with want/jealousy/need.  If he steps too close to Daryl, he can smell the oil Michonne uses to clean her sword, light as a perfume, incriminating as a fingerprint.  When he offers Michonne her coffee in the morning, her fingers will curl around his wrist, and Rick can see how her lips are bee-stung, swollen, her scent flavoured with something male.  “You’re invited,” she says, simply.  “Always were.”

The Woodbury folk are nervous around Rick.  They shy away without realising why, borderless boundaries on a map, but his own kind share everything; their affiliation and desires laid bare to Rick’s whim. 

 _We’re here,_ they say, _whenever you’re ready; we’re here for you._  

Rick leans down to kiss her, chasing the flavour of Daryl, chaste and gentle.  He built his house on a boneyard of fallen friends and lovers - he tends the fields with a grim determination to become a provider and not a killer; he keeps Carl close, hoping he’ll learn by osmosis.  In some ways, the prison feels exactly like that, walls and buttresses, designed to keep Rick  _in_ , hold him together, the baser elements that have sprung to light secured by grey concrete.

He’s not scared of Walkers or the wild.  He’s not terrified of dying ugly, leaving the hard yards to the runners like Glenn and Michonne, like some of the Woodbury folk suggest -  _doesn’t want to pull his own weight,_  they sneer,  _isn’t so keen to risk his own life_  – Walkers haven’t scared Rick in years, and the wild is not something to be feared, it’s just there.  Always has been.  Pushing back in, reclaiming the globe now that civilisation has croaked its last breath.  Rick’s safer on the inside, but the reasons allotted to him – by the strangers who don’t  _know_  him – assign the wrong motivation.  Rick’s safer on the inside – because he’s  _more dangerous out there_  – instinct and violence pulling at his skin like a Halloween mask.  He can envy Daryl. 

Daryl’s reconciled all elements of himself.  It was like he was taught to exist in this world decades before it eventuated – he’s made for it, custom-built – Rick’s still clinging to yesterday’s ghosts, all of his tomorrows heralded by the trumpeted screams of an aria. 

Of the three of them: it’s Daryl who knows everyone’s names in the prison – whom the people call out to, friendly-like, in the morning - he looks for limestone and the hidden needs of the folks he’s met, regardless if they originated from Atlanta or Woodbury, or if they were some stray brought back from the road; ironically, of the three of them, Daryl is the only one who thinks of their four walls as a  _home_ , not a house, and the folks inside of it are worth knowing. (Not a prison – Rick’s only term for it – it’s always been a prison to him, the term ‘home’ died with Lori, with the last tangible dream Rick ever held).  Rick is still learning how to be comfortable in his new skin – in the things he has been forced to do and the things he will do again – but he’s getting there; he’s learning how to let go.  He’s not a believer in dreams anymore, Rick believes in reality, in the here and the now, the things he can touch, the people he can impact. 

He watches Daryl, the way he flows - hunter/killer/friend/provider/torturer - his actions fluid as water, and tries to emulate it; to not be so rigid in how he defines himself.  Rigid doesn’t hold – as it is now, the world is a sledgehammer bent on creating spider-cracks, on knocking fortifications down - rigid is a wall ready to smash.  Changing as circumstances demand, adapting to the environment, slipping through the grasp of permanency – that’s how people like Michonne and Daryl operate.  And part of Rick can envy their ability – a part of him, darker and more primal - wants to hold Daryl static, immobile, wants to rub a dirty thumb-print over Daryl’s torso, scrub out the name inked into his flesh and replace it with his own -   _Rick Grimes_  in cursive scribe - dripping with fresh blood, a place-marker over his heart.

So let go he tries – every time Michonne rides out of the prison alone to track the Governor, self-sufficient and stony-eyed, the katana slung low on her back, the tang barely peeking over her shoulder for easy draw.  Every time the council convenes to decide what to do, every time he sees those sideways looks of consideration from the new folk.   _Why doesn’t he go out on runs, everybody does sooner or later?  Why’s_ ** _he_** _exempt?  He’s scared; safer on the inside, they say._

Words are always tripped in multiple layers, the inherent meaning changes with the flick of a comma, a placed emphasis, a question turned about, comprehension and understanding alters with each new listener; safer on the inside, they say, and Rick is - he is - but not for the reasons they assign.

C and D block are the hub of the community: showers, kitchen, the barbeque area all zones of common usage, but there’s a new section that’s been cleaned out recently; it’s been fitted with picnic tables stolen from local parks, the tables stand at hip-weight, but so far the room’s barely used, too close to the tombs for people’s comfort, even though it’s secure, and too far from the main route of C and D block.  When their population expands, it will be converted into the next housing ‘estate’, but for the moment it’s relatively private, far from prying eyes.   The prison was self-sufficient when Rick moved in - cafeteria, infirmary, weapons locker stocked with riot gear, flash-bangs, assault rifles and any number of restraints; arm and leg irons, zip-ties - Rick carries a set of handcuffs with him wherever he goes. They have an endless supply of restraints, useful for holding down potential biters, or unsavoury types when necessary, useful for any number of purposes.  Rick steps into their new section, limbs heavy, already attuned to their voices. They only got back last night, used up the prison’s supply of hot water, gulped down a meal before they collapsed in separate bunks, the beds too narrow, too short, for any sort of ‘community’ comfort.  Glenn’s made talk about doing a run into Forty Winks, stealing a Queen Size mattress because he’s sick of the bruises on his shins, and the guard tower’s been compromised once or twice by curious kids who caught an eyeful of Maggie and Glenn at the wrong time. 

Michonne’s voice echoes, it reels Rick inward, drags him forward step by step, body caught on instinct, seeking them out because this is home, these people and these limbs, the slippery combination of acceptance and ready danger.  They don’t fear Rick; all of his sharp edges are blunted by their proximity.  He breathes easier, feels lighter, when he knows they’re close.  Rick stops in the doorway, shoulder against the jam, ankles crossed loosely; he takes a moment to commit the tableau to memory, a compilation of snapshots that exist inside his own mind – the only family album he carries – and hears the tail-end of a conversation.

“ – it’s there to make you last,” Michonne promises, her voice smoky. 

There’s sleeping bags spread out on the picnic table, unzipped, to save Michonne’s ass from splinters Rick supposes; her hips are on the very  _tip_  of the table, feet up, toes curling over the edge; her toe-nails are painted, Rick notices disingenuously, a fiery red, but her fingernails remain bare.

“Jesus, woman,” Daryl mutters, his voice whiskey-rough, in response to whatever she said. 

He thrusts slow, one arm braced on the table, standing over her and looking down – to watch the point of entry, Rick thinks, to see himself slip inside her - Daryl’s legs are set wide, to adjust the difference in height, spread almost helplessly so.  “You’re greedy.”

“Healthy appetite,” Michonne corrects. 

She looks over Daryl’s shoulder, gaze searing into Rick, the smile evident as she bites down on her own lip.  Michonne’s hips undulate; her spine arches into a perfect bridge. Daryl curses, the sound broken off as he leans down to kiss her, standing on tip-toes as he doubles over the length of the table to reach.  His motion is no longer velvet smooth, his hips stutter and bump. 

Rick can see Michonne’s hand tangle in his hair, shaggy and too long, providing purchase to grip, holding Daryl close – mouths and cock – the twin points of connection where they meld into the recesses of one another.   The folks in D block would walk away, cheeks flaming with embarrassment but Rick steps closer, confident, cold steel in his hands, not a gun or a pistol - the things he’s taught himself to put aside - but familiar as his old life and just as invaluable.  The handcuffs warm under the heat Rick’s producing, stoked up like a furnace as he watches their bodies, the casual display of lithe muscle, set before him. Michonne holds Daryl’s head still, kisses him in a perfect distraction; one slender calf drags over his naked back, to keep him immobile. 

Rick stops his advance between Daryl’s spread thighs, the curve of his ass ripe, perfect as a split apple.  There’s a flutter of muscles, minor tension as awareness of another presence ticks in, then Rick plants his knee against Daryl’s butt and pushes against him.  _Hard_. Simultaneously, Michonne wraps both arms around Daryl’s back.  She groans as his cock penetrates deep, as he flattens against her, forced down and in by the outside weight. 

Daryl breaks the kiss with a near-yelp, twisting his head to look behind his own shoulder. With his arms momentarily pinned by Michonne, it’s easy for Rick to snap the cuffs on, twisting one arm behind Daryl’s back and forcing the other up into position - the work of half a second completed with the satisfying click of a lock snapping home.  When Daryl tries to get his feet under him, to regain some height and stand upright, Rick merely kicks them wide, plants both hands on Daryl’s butt and rocks his pelvis forward, into the wet embrace of Michonne’s body; stripping away any sense of self-control – Rick keeps that for himself, wrapped tightly in it – he’s missed this, he can admit freely, he can find it here and in other ways too.  Daryl shudders, he goes pliant beneath Rick’s hand.

Michonne purrs like a cat, licks up the column of his throat, she lets her tongue linger against his pulse.  “Your hearts racing,” she notes, mildly.

Daryl doesn’t quite sound himself.  “Could have just asked, didn’t need to scare me half to death.”

Rick kneads his ass, he presses a thumb against the stretched skin of his upper thigh, slides them inward, dragging against his cleft and up, to the dimple in his spine.  “Keep going,” Rick encourages.  “Looked like you had it all in hand.”  Rick drops to his knees, smooth as a penitent.  There’s a certain sentence he wants to hear, reciprocated, and punched out in desperate need.  Rick’s been aching to hear it; to let those words fall into reality and out of a dream-state, to become tangible with fact, immutable.

Daryl’s hands are cuffed behind him, there’s no leverage to be found there and with his legs stretched as wide as they are, the muscles must be set to aching by now.  Whenever Daryl tries to close them, toes scrabbling for purchase, Rick corrects his position, hands on his inner thighs, forcing his legs further apart.  Every time he disobeys Rick’s instruction, Rick flicks his tongue out to press against the perineum, to lash (teasingly) against Daryl’s exposed balls, hanging vulnerable from his doubled-over position.  Rick nuzzles against him, mouth watering. There’s the tail-end of a condom barely visible, when Rick examines it closely, he can see dark leather coiled beneath the latex, wrapped around the base of Daryl’s cock in a complicated, and tortuous, knot –  _there to make you last,_  he remembers Michonne saying – the oil she uses for her katana is within easy reach, and Rick withdraws, blowing hot air against the exposed hole until Daryl whimpers and curses a blue-streak, until he’s spurred onward to thrust, so shallow, ineffective in his current position, that he can only scrape against Michonne’s clit.

Michonne clenches with Daryl’s teeth set at her nipple.  Movements that are incremental and small, she comes easily, skin glowing and sweat streaked, primed to continue all night; she comes with a soft sound, a paean, a wordless hymn of praise.  Her inner muscles seize like a vice.  Daryl’s hands flex, twist in the cuffs uselessly, striving to go deeper,  _feel more_ , when Rick licks up the crevice of his ass and thrusts his tongue inside, making him feel  _everything_ , no secrets spared.  This close, he can smell Michonne, wet slick and her juices smearing everywhere.  The heat from their bodies is cloying, the smell far from rancid, bitter-sweet and alive.  Rick uses the breadth of his shoulders to keep Daryl’s legs spread helplessly.  This close, Daryl trembles like an earthquake, cock hooked inside Michonne’s body still and speared open on Rick’s tongue.  His balls draw up flat to his body in preparation, his cock twitches but fails to come.  Rick hopes the leather has been treated, because Daryl’s not leaving this night dry, he’s going to be covered in come, he’s going to be reeking of sex, and the cruel grip of leather will only tighten around his dick when moistened.

Rick’s jeans are too tight, his cock flush against the denim.  He unbuttons one-handed, shoves the material down around his ankles, hobbling himself like a fool until he kicks it loose.  By the time he backs away, with a kiss to Daryl’s thigh, Michonne is laughing, colour high in her cheeks, eyes lively. 

Rick doesn’t bother with the condoms, Daryl’s safe from pregnancy and Rick was clean when the world was civilized.  “Go on,” he urges, voice rough.  “Michonne’s not a guy; don’t think you even put a dent in her energy levels, she’s just got started for the night, I think.”  Rick smiles at Michonne, friendly-like; he traces a pattern down Daryl’s back and encourages.  “You best move.”

“Un-cuff me and I’ll show you all sorts of moves,” Daryl rasps.  He turns his head, pillowed on Michonne’s breasts, to peer at Rick.  His eyes are dilated, eclipsed by black, fine tremors course the length of his body. They’ve been gone for almost three weeks; Rick’s given up leadership, took a step back from a windy path; but he’s seen that tattoo on Daryl’s chest, and the reaction it elicits is like the beat of a slave-drum, driving Rick onward.

“No,” Rick says, and strips off the remainder of his clothes, standing bold and naked.  “If you don’t think you can do it, that’s fine.  I’ll pull you off Michonne and leave you in the corner, cuff your ankles to the cell bars, spread wider than you are now.  I’ll leave your cock tied up, pretty as a bow tie until that ache turns into a mean bite, until you’re mad with it.  Michonne and me will keep busy, don’t worry; we can keep busy all night.” Rick slips a hand between Daryl’s legs, places the tip of his thumb against the small muscle, pushes inside and rotates, oh-so-slowly.  “There’s a truncheon or two around these parts, I can widen you enough to slip one inside, bury it deep.  You’ll stay like that all night, do you know why: because  _I_  want you to.”

Daryl’s expression blurs, he ruts against Michonne, uncoordinated, small pushes of his body, the shallow drive of his hips working overtime.  Michonne luxuriates beneath him, eyes slanted with desire, cutting her gaze toward Rick with a cat smile, the one with a whole bowl of cream set in front of her.   Daryl’s awareness has slackened, he’s caught up in inflammatory words, possible worlds ignited with a few short sentences, he’s focused entirely on Rick; Rick could do all of that, he knows –  _and Daryl would allow it_  - he’d bend his body to any design Rick required, except what he wants is here, now, and Rick wants none of that - the reaction, though, is interesting.  The reaction could merit further investigation, find out what it was, exactly, that made Daryl go blind.  “Go on,” he repeats, softly.  “Make her come for me.”

By Michonne’s third orgasm ( _last one,_  Rick had promised) Daryl’s sobbing; a low keen he can’t withhold as he strains and flexes against her. Rick holds his wrists still, making sure the handcuffs don’t mangle his flesh, he kisses Michonne lazily, mouths at her breasts, licks the sweat from her clavicle and palms her tummy.  He wipes the damp hair from Daryl’s eyes, and feels the expelled air when Daryl whispers, near inaudible.  _Rick, please, please… I need you._

 _I can’t do this,_  he says, brokenly,  _god, please, let me come_.

The duality of multiple meanings: because all of that is about sex, and all of it applies to life – I need you – I can’t do this alone – let me come, let me stay with you.   _God, Rick_ , he mouths – and Rick thinks –  _you’re mine, because I **am** an interventionist god – even if the real one couldn’t be fucked lifting a finger to help anyone_ – Rick’s never giving up this soul. 

It’s easy to slick himself with Michonne’s oil, to guide himself into that stretched open hole, to sink in deep, pressing Daryl’s chest flat to Michonne and then just driving forward.  Hard and brisk, unyielding.  They’re a connected three-way circuit, fucking Michonne through Daryl, and feeling her push back – the archer caught between.  

She comes with a feral shout, with her hands digging into Rick’s hips, hard enough to bruise.

Rick plants both feet, he wraps a hand around the link connecting the handcuffs and pulls, peeling Daryl’s chest away from Michonne, arching his spine, until he’s only connected by his cock.  Rick doesn’t linger, he readjusts his hold quickly, spares the shoulder muscles from further strain, and wraps an arm around Daryl’s torso to take the pressure off.  He sinks downward to the floor, buried to the hilt inside a hot channel, with Daryl bundled on his lap.  Above them, Michonne wraps the sleeping bag around herself and sits on the table, cross-legged.  She hums, a low sound of approval.

Daryl’s cock, wrapped inside the condom and exposed to the air, bobs about angrily.  Rick peels the latex off and tosses it aside.  He thrusts against the other man’s weight, feeling the muscles in his thigh work, every breath laboured against the sweet exertion.  He hooks his chin over a hard shoulder, cushioned on muscle and bone, and sees the smear of ink out of the corner of his eye.  The hated name of a stranger...probably dead and long gone.  It shouldn’t mean anything to Rick; it shouldn’t ignite this burn of possessiveness, the drive to own – dirty words spoken in the heat of the moment and way Daryl’s face had slackened – had someone taught him to want it like that?  Had someone branded their name into his skin; re-hardwired his responses to stimuli, taught him different?  Had someone seen the sweetness when he comes, and hoarded it?

Michonne stares at them both – her eyes tracking every movement – and Rick showcases them, because this is hers, and they’re his, and Rick doesn’t believe in the rigidity of walls any more.  If there’s sweetness to be found, it’s shared.

There are pearls of come on the tip of Daryl’s cock, dribbling down the side. Rick uses his hand to spread it from the tip of his penis to the roped off base of his dick, and then he uses more oil and makes everything messy and wet.  “You’re going to come through this,” Rick whispers, and finger-flicks the knot, impossible to untie now with his fingers oiled the way they are. 

Daryl flinches, he shrinks against Rick, squeezes his ass-muscles in retaliation until Rick sees white, until he’s panting and dizzy with need.  “Sonnuavabitch –“ Daryl growls, his words slurred with exhaustion.  “Dry-comin’ hurts you – “

Rick doesn’t let him finish.  He spreads Daryl’s knees over his own, changes the angle of penetration, wraps one arm over Daryl’s shoulders to keep him in place, and the other around his cock to keep him insensate, then he just  _jack-hammers_  the man’s prostate.

Rick’s been waiting long enough for this, been oh-so-patient; he can feel his own need spiralling out of control.   He uses the other hand to strip Daryl’s cock, blurring over oil and bound leather until Daryl seizes, an artists portrait of extremity – pleasure and agony – painted in the musculature of his frame; he comes silent, every tendon strained, his cock doesn’t spurt come like it should but dribbles over like a cracked lava bed, just as scolding to touch.  His hands, cuffed behind him, scratch against Rick’s belly until his palms flatten and his fingers clench, pinching Rick’s skin painfully.  His cock is still dribbling, pushing past tightly bound leather, and Daryl sobs once, broken open. Rick steals the sound away.  He seals his mouth over Daryl’s, turning his head and kissing him quiet.  Rick comes like that, oxygen deprived and balls deep, traces of Michonne on the tip of his tongue. He comes with Daryl pliant, spent on his lap, with Michonne scratching her nails through Rick’s hair.  _Come up here,_ she teases, _ain’t done with you yet._

 _Yeah,_ Rick murmurs.  If he stays on his knees any longer, he’ll never walk again.  He loosens his grip from Daryl’s cock, gathering spunk on his fingertips, and rubs it over the tattoo, smearing over a stranger’s name viciously, scrubbing it out.

Daryl melts against him, throat working as he gathers enough moisture to talk. “Y’all taking the leather off sometime soon?”

“Fingers are too slippery,” Rick explains – when Daryl frowns, staring downward in consternation - Michonne offers: “I can cut it off, if you want.”  Her smile is sharp as a blade, just as welcoming..

Daryl recoils. “No offence, but I don’t want your sword anywhere near my dick.”

“I can use my teeth, like tying a knot in a cherry stem, I have plenty of party tricks.”

“We’ll see about that,” Rick says, calm now, calmer than he’s been in weeks, and kisses Daryl beneath the ear.  "We'll see."

 


End file.
